It might be argued that Nanaue has subdued himself. Michael lets out a huff. Some day, he'll stop being surprised how easy it is to distract the shark with a new game or a change of scenery.

Now that the other god is his usual cheerful self, Michael is less inclined to drop him. He readjusts his grip. Less claw contact, but still a secure hold on the bad wet dog. There's a nice linear stretch of coast here that allows him to fly in a straight line for a while without paying too much attention to his surroundings. Michael leans his head forward and down to peer into Nanaue's beady little black eyes. He's still all teeth, no eyes of his own in sight, but Nanaue is familiar with this face. He shouldn't be intimidated.

"You bit me," he says, as casual as a hello or making small talk about the weather. They're both still bleeding, dripping and leaving the occasional patch of bloody water in their wake. He's had worse. "Did I offend, or are you hungry?"

More hungry than usual, he means. Nanaue has existed in what seems to be a constant state of hunger for as long as he's known him, but he doesn't usually bite down on his fellow Summoned. The fishing must be bad this season.